


Leave Me At The Shore

by Xinbimodu



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Merman Derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 16:51:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xinbimodu/pseuds/Xinbimodu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is for Niri who planted the seed from which this story sprung and then coaxed me into finishing it when, halfway through, I was on the verge of abandoning it completely. Title is from the poem “If You Forget Me” by Pablo Neruda.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Leave Me At The Shore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iaddedarainbow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iaddedarainbow/gifts).



> This is for Niri who planted the seed from which this story sprung and then coaxed me into finishing it when, halfway through, I was on the verge of abandoning it completely. Title is from the poem “If You Forget Me” by Pablo Neruda.

Stiles listens carefully for the sound of his dad’s rhythmic snoring before rolling out of bed. It’s a quarter past one and a school night but Stiles slips into a pair of semi-clean jeans anyway. He’s halfway out his bedroom door, and in the process of stuffing his car keys into his pocket, when the thrash of palm leaves outside makes him double back. 

The Hawaiian islands aren’t exactly known for their chilly winter weather but there’s a tropical storm brewing somewhere in the Pacific and he’d rather not freeze to death if it starts raining a little earlier than expected. 

He’s searching for his favorite hoodie, the dark blue Batman one that his cousin sent him for Christmas last year, when his fingers tangle up in her favorite beach blanket. The light coming through his bedroom window is barely bright enough to see in but he’d know the soft, well-worn fabric anywhere. It’s been in the family for years. 

Decades even. Stiles’ grandmother gave it to his mother right before she died and, in keeping with tradition, his mother had done the same. 

There’s a painful lump in his throat as he pulls the quilted comforter off it’s shelf, accompanied by an irritating stinging at the corners of his eyes when he thinks about how thin and frail she’d been that night. Under the swirling blues and greens she’d been little more than cancer and bone, his vivacious mother reduced to this thin wisp of a woman that he could barely recognize. She’d told him to take the comforter with him when he went home that night, her smile unwavering but her eyes full of sorrow. He’d known then that she wouldn’t get better, the resignation in her eyes as heart breaking as the thought of growing up without her. 

He’d been thirteen and determined not to cry.

When she reached for him, lifting the comforter just high enough for him to slip under it and curl up alongside her, he hadn’t been able to stop.

They’d lain there for hours on her tiny hospital bed, planning for a future that they both knew wouldn’t come, him clinging to her desperately as she kissed his tears away and told him stories about her childhood that he’d never heard before. Stories that she should have had an entire lifetime to share.

The clatter of mothballs falling out of the folds of the comforter, and onto the scuffed wooden floor, is loud enough to distract Stiles from his memories. He sets the comforter aside long enough to pull a random hoodie over his head and then gathers it to his chest once more before making his way out into the hall.

He pauses in front of his dad’s room, double-checking that he’s sound asleep, before stopping in the entryway to stick his feet into his favorite pair of billabong slippers. 

Mrs. Akimoru’s cat watches him curiously from a bedroom window as Stiles lets himself out the front door, the squeaky hinges his dad refuses to fix creaking gently as he slowly eases it shut behind him. 

The wind picks up again as he climbs into his jeep, the noise just loud enough to camouflage the cacophonous sound of his engine turning over once he’s jammed his key into the ignition and given it a rough turn. The cat continues to stare at him, eyes luminous and knowing as he carefully backs out of his driveway. 

He’s driving north on Kuhio highway in a matter of minutes, the anxious energy that comes with sneaking out beginning to dissipate the farther he drives. Stiles knows that his dad worries when he’s out this late, especially when there’s a storm off shore, but this island, his mother’s island, and it’s fluctuating weather are as familiar to him as the freckles scattered across his face. He knows he’ll beat the storm home and, though his dad is probably the most observant person in the world, Stiles also knows that he won’t be gone long enough to be missed. 

(He’s a pro after all; he’s been making yearly pre-dawn trips like this for years.

Long before he’d gotten his permit at fifteen and could drive the thirty-five minutes to Lumahai Beach—his mother’s favorite spot just west of Hanalei Bay—Stiles had been riding his bike to Anahola Bay, his mom’s most treasured picnic haven and a stone’s throw from his house in comparison to the trek to Lumahai. He’d been a pre-pubescent weakling back then and yet the ride had always taken roughly the same thirty-five minutes as the drive to the North shore took him now.

He’d always been home before sunrise then and, four years later, he seriously doubts anything will cause that to change.)

Sure, Lumahai is known for some crazy riptides but, even without the threat of the massive storm on the horizon (which is guaranteed to make the pull of the tides worse), he’s smarter than to go swimming at early o’clock in the morning in some of the most dangerous waters of Kauai. 

 

Seriously, what could possibly happen?


End file.
